chickie run, chickie hunt

I

"Do you think it's true what they said?"

"What are you on about?" Buzz harshly whispered, trying to conceal his voice from the student body that crowded around the diner's front doors.

"Plato. He isn't coming back." Jim slouched back down on the bench he sat on, his hands tucked into his pockets. He looked somber and pensive, lost in the grievances of his friend, who he no longer had contact with.

He didn't know when it happened, or how it started. Where the memory lay in his head as to what Plato's phone number was; all he knew was that one time he tried to call him, and was met with the static sound of no pick-up on the other side.

Buzz shrugged, no expression showing on his face.

"He's probably on vacation," he murmured, letting out a stifled chuckle.

"Asshole," Jim chastised, "that's what he said about his mom."

"What about his mom?" Buzz responded, the smug demeanor he had vanishing immediately. It was almost hilarious how quickly he was caught in the wrong.

Frustrated with a sense of defeat, Jim sighed and stood up from the table, Buzz still seated atop the bench's grated surface; he pushed a dulled cigarette bud through one of the small holes, propelling himself up from the table with the palms of his hands, landing on his dulled, weathered boots. Jogging up to his friend, who was already walking away, he caught up, and slapped Jim's back in a reassuring manner.

"...Alright, well, if you don't wanna tell me now, you can tell me when we get inside," Buzz said with a smile.

Jim shook his head, brushing off Buzz's hand and pushing through the crowd of teenagers. The door was shut, the clear glass showcasing nothing but a stout, older man, gesturing frantically to a more lanky, stick-like figure. There must've be something going on; the line that held up outside the Diner was nothing like they've seen before.

With a single finger, Jim pointed up at the door, turning to look up at Buzz for some sort of explanation. He was met with yet another shrug, an unhelpfulness he should've have guessed he'd get. Exhaling roughly through his nose, he let out a curse of impatience. He came here to eat something, not get caught up in some petty drama.

He couldn't help the stress that boiled up inside of his mind. First it's his missing friend, then it's Buzz's fucking stupidity, and then it's a cancelled lunch he was looking forward to; it was supposed to help him keep him cool, collected. He was sick of it. Sick of the world screwing him over. He wasn't going to let this opportunity of some sort calmness, or a feeling of being able to breathe for just a second escape him.

With a scowl, Jim aggressively shoved open the door, the two men who stood in-between the counters looking up at him with bewildered expressions. As quickly as wind blew in a hurricane, Jim's face went from red to pale within seconds, his fingers falling off from the door handle he once grasped with purpose.

"We ain't open," the shorter man remarked, twirling his pen in an anxious manner in one of his hands. Jim stood quietly in front of the door, the sound of voices dimming as it began to close. But then it stood still, the sound not losing its potency any further, as if a foot lodged itself roughly underneath the frame, catching it from closing shut.

"'Course, but you've got a whole fuckin' mob of kids out there."

The voice came from behind Jim, on he recognized immediately. Whipping his head back he was met with the image of the tall frame of Buzz holding open the door with an arm just over Jim's head, a foot crammed under it, and his other hand resting confidently on his jut-out hip.

"You might wanna tell them lunch is off," Buzz finished, nodding condescendly at the two men.

Jim furrowed his eyebrows, his head switching focus from the greying, annoyed man, the stick bug with the terrified expression in front of him, and the once again proof of stupidity that came from Buzz.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked him, but immediately cut off; both of their tones were harsh and low, a habit they seem to have developed since their small talk before the chickie run became long discussions and small hang outs. Getting into trouble called for desperate measures to keep yourself out of the police station.

"I'm trynna help you out," Buzz replied, his jaw clenched and eyes wide.

"There's nothing to— screw it," Jim shoved Buzz out with his the side of his body, rushing both of them out of the diner before they found themselves in any deeper shit.

Buzz, halfway through the eager crowd of students, and Jim, standing just outside the door, the younger one of the two workers piped up, the sounds that left him sounding like the whines of a puppy trying to get their mother's attention.

"Hey, wait — " the boy began, shifting from leaning against the counter to stand closer to Jim, "we do have a problem. It's about this kid, he left some note on the fridge. We think he's the one who stole half the stock of meat we had."

Jim's ears perked up, his body relaxing; he let out a few mumbles, incoherent and struggling to figure out how to say what he was thinking. "You mean the.." he began, trailing off, but he kept pushing forward, "...can I see the note?"

"No, wait, we were just getting outta here!" Buzz complained, whining and crying from behind him, his shoulders collapsing in midst of his small tantrum, as Jim took hold of the note the boy gave to him, holding it in between his fingers. He studied it, ignoring the frustrated moans from his barbaric friend.

"Buzz, shut up. Look," Jim held the sticky note up to Buzz, who read the note over his shoulder, having squint his eyes to see the small written text on the piece of yellow paper.

"Yeah, okay, it's beef. He stole beef." Buzz quipped, impatient.

Jim gave him a threatening look, shaking the note to further emphasize his point, "it's Plato. He stole it. He's the kid they're talking about. He has to be."

Buzz raised his eyebrows, digesting the news. He couldn't believe the coincidence, or even the timing of what they found. The only thing he could possibly dread now is having to go search for him. Buzz never took kindly to Plato; he weirded him out.

Buzz's fake astonishment faded, a more critical look replacing it, "hold on a second now, how do you know that's Plato, Jimmie?"

"The handwriting," he looked at Buzz as if he was insane, as if everyone knew what Plato's handwriting looked like. In reality, it was only Jim, and his developing obsession over the boy. Maybe it was a bit of a stretch to refer to it as an obsession; more of a collision of thoughts that overcrowded his brain, and contained only the images and memories of his friend. A testament to his anxieties and budding nervousness that led him to analyze every last thing he could recall from the relationship.

Buzz let out a small snicker, the bridge of his nose scrunched, and a toothy grin spread across his face. "That's so gay."

Jim hastily punched him in the gut, a wheeze of pain escaping Buzz, curling in on himself as Jim brushed past him and out the door, waving stiffly to the workers who sat taken aback still stood in the same spots they were when they found them. Jim had the note with him, still resting in his palm and his fingers wrapped around it, as if scared it might blow away. Buzz stumbled behind, cursing as he held his hand against his stomach, rubbing the area of contact from side to side.

"That hurt," Buzz groaned, pouting. Jim peered up at Buzz and looked him up and down, both of the boys now retreating down the sidewalk of their neighbourhood. They didn't bring any mode of transportation along; it was just them, their legs, and the stolen piece of evidence residing in Jimmy's grasp.

Jim shook his head, feeling a bit of sympathy for hitting him so hard, but not enough to let Buzz's comment slide. He brushed his shoulder up against Buzz's, gently pushing him to the side in a teasing manner. He didn't seem as upset now, as the feeling of hope flushed throughout his body. He didn't respond for some time, letting the seconds tick by. His eyes, squinted from the sun that broke through their shadows and looked as though it couldn't get any brighter, he gazed up at Buzz's face, who looked at him waiting for Jim to say what he expected him to say.

"Maybe..." Jim started with a genuine albeit strained smile, "Watch what you say next time."